First Rule of Casual Sex: Don’t Fuck your Type

“Baby, we both know that the nights were mainly made for saying things that you can’t say tomorrow day.”

– Do I Wanna Know? Arctic Monkeys

Confession: I redeveloped an interest in going on a date with the guy from Niagara – yeah, the guy I was casually having sex with. Oops! He’s very much my type. (Note to future self: Don’t casually fuck my type.) I knew this going into it, but I had already convinced myself that he didn’t have boyfriend potential because he didn’t appear to be looking for a relationship. (What is it that they say about assumptions?) Given that I had categorized him as non-boyfriend material, I thought I’d be able to successfully separate sex and my relationship search, because sex is oh-so-logical like that. Interest in dating him that was there following our April night together in Niagara was no longer present. Sexual attraction, on the other hand, was alive and well. I thought physical and emotional detachment would be manageable. Initially, it was. I was unfazed by the two times I saw him in September. However, after I last saw him on Halloween, I felt icky.

I descended the stairs from his bedroom to the hallway, post-sex discomfort setting in to replace the confidence that had followed the first two disposals of my clothes. I put on my jacket as he held my purse, joking with him about his manhood to prevent the self-berating that I was already executing in my head (Sex is not the goal, I lectured myself. I should be out on dates instead of entangled in bed sheets, I scolded.) from showing on my face. As we kissed goodbye, a voice in the back of my head nagged me to get my ass out the door. I needed to be alone. My thoughts were inflicting mental torture: This is why I don’t have a boyfriend, I punished myself; I take the time to date guys that don’t have a hope in hell of intriguing me, but fucking (pun intended) disregard the one that does.

My intentions had suddenly changed. For the first time since early spring, I was interested in going on a date with this guy. Fuck. Unlike last time, though, I couldn’t brush him off as not having relationship potential and easily forget about him. By this point, he had demonstrated traits that I liked: intelligence, knowledge of investments (so hot that my pants were virtually off at the notice that he was able to hold a conversation about the housing market and stock exchange – yeah, financial talk can really get a girl going), goals, family values (guys, I’ve said it before, pictures of you with your nieces and nephews make girls melt), social skills, care for his friends, charm comparable to that of the Prince himself, and – I choose not to continue, because this list is already embarrassingly long. (Oh, but I should note his tight abs. That’s important. Have I mentioned how much I love tight abs?) Ugh, yes, I unexpectedly wanted more than sex. (What’s that? You saw this coming? Thanks for the heads up, friends!) How annoying. We had a good thing going – until he turned out to have many of the qualities I’m looking for in a boyfriend.

Evidently, the sex could not continue. Fuck my life, right? Meaninglessly fucking a guy that I wanted to date would be counterproductive. However, I also didn’t want to hastily give up easy sex for a possible (#denial) interest. Don’t be rash, I told myself. I wasn’t sure if I was craving a boyfriend in general or if I was genuinely interested in him. After all, I had just left the guy’s house in the middle of the night. I was clearly upset about being single. Having gone from totally cool to a confused mess in the mere hours between him unsnapping my bra and me refastening it, my emotions were all over the place. Logical decisions do not arise from such a state. I promised myself that I wouldn’t make a move until I knew whether I was DTF or DTD (down to date).

About two weeks later, with my interest in dating him still there, I decided that I needed to tell him. I was 99 percent sure I’d be rejected, but I needed a solid no to come from him in order to let go of the idea. Without it, I’d just wonder what-if. I don’t like what-ifs. The fact that I had shown no interest in dating him by only reaching out to him for sex taunted me. My own display of disinterest in anything other than sex made me question my certainty of his. I needed to avoid further assumptions. I needed to be direct in asking for a date to prompt a direct response.

Moreover, my little sister had asked me a month prior if I’d ever tell a guy that I liked him. With no one of interest to me then, I easily replied, “Absolutely!” I explained that I had liked someone in high school and tried to hide it, causing my friendship with the guy to suffer. From that I learned it’s best to make my feelings known. When I became sure that I wanted to go on a date with the guy from Niagara, I knew that being upfront was a must – not only for me, but to be a role model to my little sister, who will definitely be sent the link to this post.

Though set on telling him, I was unsure how to approach it. We didn’t communicate in between seeing each other, and we only saw each other to have sex. I didn’t want to invite him over under the pretense of sex only to drop a dating bomb on him. Even I, as a chick, would be irritated if I thought I was going to have sex and it didn’t happen. However, I wasn’t sure texting a declaration of my interest in a date was the way to go either. I preferred to chat with him about it in person. I settled on suggesting that he and I hang out at my place. Hang out deliberately replaced my usually insinuative word choices, like sleepover or spontaneous night. That way, I wasn’t implying sex. Sex is already inherently implied with us, but the best I could do was extenuate the implications with PG phrasing.

He did not respond. I took that as my answer. I tried to make myself feel better about not getting the chance to tell him by rationalizing that at least I had attempted to see him with the intent of saying something. That was in mid-November. Three days after I sent him the text that he ignored, Olivia and I began fighting for the umpteenth time, causing the guy from Niagara to escape my mind. I was too busy trying to resuscitate an eight-year friendship to have much concern for anything else. (Update: It’s still not breathing.) A month went by, and he remained unthought-of.

Here is how my mind made its way back to him: I went on two dates with two different guys this past weekend. (I was going to write a designated post for each to relay the details, but I honestly can’t bring myself to hash out two posts describing yet two more dates that I couldn’t care less about.) To briefly summarize them, I met Friday’s date at my work Christmas party. It started with affogato and ended at Starbucks. We talked until nearly 6 am. (I really need to get better at ending these damn things. My eyes were burning.) Saturday’s date was from OKCupid. (Yes, I was serious about taking action over my dating life again, so back online I went.) It prevailed through a heavy snow storm. I met the guy for sushi at a nearby restaurant. Almost four hours later, I was driving home wondering when the hell I’m going to have an interest in someone that isn’t MIA. Both guys made it clear that they want to see me again. My internal reaction: meh. There was nothing wrong with these guys, but there was nothing captivating about them either. I was not attracted, and I’m too impatient to see if anything could develop. I expect attraction to be immediate. It’s simply there or it isn’t, and if it isn’t there after an all-nighter and a four-hour dinner, no amount of additional dates can save these guys.

I’m not settling for anything less than instant chemistry. This slowly-growing-to-like-someone philosophy that characterizes twenty-something dating is boring. I want surprise hot nights with boys by bars, I whined to myself as I drove through the snow on Saturday night. I want spontaneity. I want fucking fireworks. I want the guy from Niagara! . . . I paused before quickly scrambling to retrace my thoughts. Where the fuck did that come from? Take it back, take it back, take it back! I yelled at myself within my own head. I couldn’t. It was too blatant to ignore. Cue the text that I sent him on Sunday evening.

Obviously, my interest had not disappeared, as I had hoped. It was time to address it. Who was I kidding? Intent meant nothing. I had given up when he didn’t answer me. I had shied away from saying what I needed to say for fear of rejection, which had been made more plausible by his lack of response. Ultimately, in November, I chose not to act because I was scared. This was unacceptable to me. What would I do if I weren’t afraid? Tell him. If texting was my only medium, so be it. I sent him an honest message to which I got an immediate response. I’m glad that I did. He now knows where my interests lie, and I now know that he’s unavailable. I can move on from the idea that he and I could have been something more to each other than some guy and some girl from Hotel. Here are the texts verbatim, emoticon and lol included:

Me: “Hey, this is going to sound random, but you came to mind, so bear with me. If you still aren’t seeing anyone, would you be open to trying to go on a date? I wrote you off as a sex-only kind of guy, both this year and when we were teenagers, assuming you wouldn’t be interested in getting to know each other, rather than directly asking you to confirm. So I’m asking (#maturity lol). Feel free to be honest. P.S. Don’t hate me for being such a girl right now.”

Him: “You’re hilarious! I’m sure we would have an amazing time, but I can’t do that at this point because I’m seeing someone. Thanks for being straightforward about it though.”

(How is it that even his rejection is charming? Did he seriously become more attractive in telling me that a date is a no-go?)

Me: “Haha, I’m sure we would too. Thank you for answering. I really appreciate it. All the best : ).”

I truly mean that. How can I not wish anything but happiness for the guy that helped me to let go? I will forever be grateful for his reappearance in my life, and he will always have significance due to his perfect timing. He is not the guy from Niagara to me, as he is known to you. He is a memory of Hotel and the outgoing girl I was at 18 that, before The Happiness Experiment, I never thought I’d get back. I got better; I got happy. It was that sleepless night in April that gave me my first taste of the happiness that my experiment would unfold. Whether he knows it or not, he had purpose. And so, I close this chapter of my story with him without regret. He is a memory once again.